


Dressed Like Sin

by orphan_account



Category: NCIS
Genre: BDSM, D/s, F/M, Foot Fetish, Kink, PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny and Jethro sitting in a tree K-I-N-K-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes bondage... or wait is that the other way around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boat

**  
**She’s dressed like sin.

It’s the first thing he notices and the only thing he cares about and if that dress weren’t enough to put the question of why the hell she came here after the latest one of her innumerable rubber chicken dinners out of his mind then her shoes (and the utterly delicious things they’re doing to her legs) would be more than enough to force away any and all such thoughts.

As it is, he can’t even catch his breath for a ‘hubba hubba’.

Sin, he considers, may be an understatement.

Her dress is silky. A dark green colour that she wears oh so well. It drapes in a way that is sinfully suggestive yet not indecent, not to a passer-by at least (he is hyper aware of the fact that every place it touches her, his hands have touched her).

“Jethro.”

Her greeting is simple. It doesn’t apologise for being here but it no more asks anything in return (her body is doing enough of that asking for the both of them).

He doesn’t reply, merely empties a nearby mason jar of myriad screws and nails and pours in a generous slug of bourbon before handing it to her.

She sips it gently, slowly, maintaining eye contact over the rim of the makeshift tumbler.  
He moves towards her, invades her personal space deliberately. She puts the mason jar down when he gets close enough she can feel his breath on her skin.

Neither of them knows who moved first. Neither of them gives a fucking damn.

His lips are on hers, hard and unyielding and her tongue forces its way into his mouth as she gives as good as she’s getting.

Their tongues slide together, picking up their battle of dominance as though they’d never abandoned it and he tugs at her hips, pulling her body flush against him.

He tugs at her dress sharply and she backs off a few steps before toeing off her shoes and shrugging the silky contraption off her shoulders. It pools at her feet and he chokes on air when he sees she’s wearing thigh highs and a bra. And nothing else. 

His eyes trail down her body, re-committing her curves to memory. She really hasn’t changed very much, except for a collection of scars he has never seen before. His perusal reaches her thighs, visibly glistening in the low light and he draws in a sharp breath at the evidence of her obvious arousal.

He turns her around and pushes her flat against one of the ribs of his boat, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the smooth wood.

He drags his hand between her legs and he can’t help but thrust against her when he feels just how wet she is.

“You’re dripping” he growls in her ear and she moans, rubbing against the wood in front of her. Searching for friction, pressure, something. Anything. He grabs her hands and pulls them above her head, holding her wrists in one hand as the other rests on her hip, fingers drawing a teasing pattern on her skin.  
He leans his head down to her neck and licks her skin gently. She moans, head falling back, and he takes advantage of the increased access to bite down on her neck, just hard enough to toe the line between pleasure and pain. (He hopes she still likes this).

“Jethro”, she gasps, grinding her hips against him as well as she can (which isn’t very well at all).

“Jen.” He replies. The first word he’s spoken all night and his tone tells her he knows just exactly what she’s doing to her.

He bites down on the juncture of neck and shoulder. Her cry turns into a whimper as he laves the spot with his tongue.

His free hand comes up to her breasts, palming them through her bra and he grins against her skin as he feels the nipples hardening beneath the silk.

He pulls the cups down, exposing her breasts to the cool air and she hisses at the sensation, wiggling in her attempts to brush the hardened peaks against the wood pressed up between her breasts. But his body is pressing against the length of her, the fabric of his clothing is rough against her skin, and she doesn’t even have enough range of movement to thrust back against the cock she can feel tucked snugly into her lower back.

He returns his attention to attacking her neck with his mouth, alternating sharp bites with kisses and licks of his tongue and she’s so wrapped up in the sensations he’s causing that she doesn’t realise his hand has left her breast until it sneaks its way between her pubic bone and the rib of the boat. One searching finger invades her wetness and he groans against her ear.

“God, Jen. You’re soaked.” He bites her lobe gently and drags one calloused finger against her swollen clit. She whimpers and thrashes her head and he can tell it’s not going to take a lot to push her over the edge. He strums his fingers against her clit in an ever-quickening dance and then pinches it hard between two fingers as he places a harsh bite just under her jaw and she gasps for breath as her orgasm washes over her.

He strokes her clit gently through the aftershocks and waits for her breathing to even out before he releases her hands. She starts to move them but he grasps them quickly and returns them to their position above her head. 

“Don’t move” he admonishes huskily, backing away slightly so he can undo his jeans quickly, pushing them down his hips with his briefs, but keeping one hand against the small of her back, knowing that she would be quick to assert control, given the chance.

He’s back in place as quickly as humanly possible, and he wastes no time in guiding himself into her. 

“God” she moans, pushing down on him as he thrusts slowly into her.

“Just me,” he replies before his mind is wiped of anything but the sensation of being engulfed in her silky wet heat. He pauses for a few seconds, taking a few deep breaths to aid his composure and then he’s thrusting gently, his hands moving up to pluck at her nipples.

“Harder” she whimpers, but his pace doesn’t change.

“Huh?” He’s asking her for more and even though it’s been years since they’ve been in this kind of position it’s not the type of cue she’s likely to forget.

“Please Jethro.” She begs. “Please fuck me harder!”

He quickens his speed, thrusting into her at a brutal pace and pinching her erect nipples. She comes suddenly, breaking off in the middle of yet another plea of “Oh fuck please _Jethro_ ” and at the fluttering of her cunt around him he spills his own release.

He releases her as soon as he catches her breath and she regains her composure in the time it takes to stride to his workbench and polish off the bourbon he had given her.

As she dresses he takes a critical eye to the marks her fingernails made in the wood of his boat. He turns around once she’s done and when he nods his head towards the marred wood she gives him a shrug that says punish me (and the challenge in her eyes says if you can).

“Shall we skip the ‘we shouldn’t have done that’ bull” she asks huskily and he shrugs,

“Why start lying to each other now, Jen?” They echo their earlier conversation and the words that had followed hang unspoken in the air between them (he has as little problem taking orders from her as she from him).

She walks up to him and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Night Jethro.”

She’s up the stairs and out the door by the time he raises his bourbon in a mock salute and replies “Night, Jen.” **  
**


	2. The Couch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consent is important in all sexual relationships, kiddos, I’m figuring this is still tame enough that there’s as yet no need for a safe word other than “stop”. still playing in the incredibly tame area of the kinkdom (though this did end up significantly more D/s than I had intended [blame the characters. I do.]).

Gibbs looks up as he enters the bullpen. She’s taken up her usual position on the catwalk, forearms resting on the rails, body slightly bent. He tries not to think about how incredibly easy it would be to just slip into her from behind (the whole bullpen watching as he claimed her for his own).

She looks over at him as though she can sense him watching. She holds his gaze and lifts a hand to her neck, rubbing it innocently as she bites her lip.

“Fuck” he swears under his breath, glad that by this point he’s seated with his desk covering his crotch.

She may be wearing a turtleneck (has been for the past week) but he is very aware of just where she was pressing her hand. (He can remember the feeling of marking her there as though it was mere seconds ago).

“Boss.” Tony’s voice breaks into his haze of memory and he snaps his gaze away from Jen to look at his protege. “Just heard from Metro PD. They spotted Mr. Jones entering a building on K street.”

“Go. Take Ziva.” At his command DiNozzo scrambles to his feet, grabbing his gear and booking it to the elevators, Ziva at his heels.   
Gibbs glances up but Jen’s gone, retreated into her office, he’s sure. He turns his attention to McGee, who stumbles over his words before telling Gibbs he’ll be in Abby’s lab.

His team dispersed, Gibbs strides over to the stairs, bounding up them and walking quickly past Cynthia’s desk (her demands he stop fall unheard on the door he throws open and then slams behind him.

She is unperturbed by his forceful entry, rather she greets him,

“Good morning Jethro,” while she turns her chair to the side and crosses her legs slowly, his gaze following the lengths of her long, pale legs. After a moment he turns his gaze back to her.

“Shoes must hurt.” She arches one brow, her gaze steady, fully aware that any and all interest he may have in her shoes would never be anything short of prurient.

“What are you suggesting, Jethro?’

“Can’t a guy just sit down and give a foot rub to his old partner?” She doesn’t reply. She stands (ensures he’s able to see down her shirt as she bends over her desk) and tells Cynthia she and ‘Agent Gibbs’ are not to be disturbed before she strides to the couch.

“Lock the door, Jethro.” He may be the one about to rub her feet but she’s in control this time (and she’s going to make damn well sure he knows it). He does as she asks but his little half smirk tells her that he may not be so amenable to relinquishing the upper hand. (She’s always enjoyed a good fight).

She sits leaning back against the arm, her legs stretching along the length of the couch and he takes a seat on the far side.

Jethro pulls her feet into his lap. He slips her shoes off slowly and lets the astronomically expensive pumps fall to the ground.

He begins to massage her feet slowly. He’s as good at it as she remembers (maybe better) and she exults in the pleasure washing over her, watching him intently as he works. He looks up, his incredibly blue eyes meeting hers. They maintain eye contact as he pulls her toes into his mouth, one by one, sucking on them and rejoicing as she thrashes on the couch before him.

Before his hands can move on from the exquisite foot massage to dance up her legs to the cunt he knows must be as wet as he is hard, the foot he’s not currently holding shifts in his lap.

At first he thinks it just a twitch—a reaction to the pleasure he’s causing. He soon realises that it’s nothing of the sort. Jen is moving her foot in a very deliberate way, rubbing Jethro’s cock through his pants with a touch that is all tease (never quite enough pressure to get a good rhythm going). He groans and bucks up into the arch of her soft, pale foot. 

“Fuck. Jen!” He gives up all pretense of the massage, gripping his knees instead, a helpless thrall to her ministrations. She continues her slow perusal of his lap with her feet, loving the sight of Jethro losing himself in the sensations she’s causing.

Jenny wouldn’t say she won because, well, that would be crass and in these games there’s no real loser, but she’s in control now and she pauses for a moment to observe just how much she enjoys that. Enjoys knowing she could go back to work at any moment, leaving Jethro to sit on her couch battling his arousal until she took pity on him or he got himself under enough of control to return to his job (he once left her trussed up in Paris for a good hour, keeping her constantly on the edge but never quite letting her come).

But today she’s decided to be nice (in relative terms).

“That must be quite uncomfortable” she eyes the bulge in his pants, knowing full well his cock must be straining against the confines of his briefs.

He almost moves. 

It’s been a long time and they’d never done this at NCIS and he almost moves.

At the last moment, he remembers. His hands stay in place and he looks up at Jen

“May I?” She remains impassive. “Please.” She grins openly at the word, so rarely uttered by the infamous Leroy Jethro Gibbs (though she does wonder, privately, how many other women he’s been with that have teased it from him in similar situations). Still she holds off for a few beats, gives his cock one last caress.

“You may.” 

Jethro’s hands fly to the closure of his pants, opening them quickly and threading his cock out. He sighs in relief at the release of pressure.

“Hands” she murmurs and she may as well have been pointing a gun at him because he dutifully raises his hands to clasp the back of his head in the classic position of surrender.

Jenny’s never been the type of Domme to disparage eye contact and she’s glad that Jethro has apparently remembered, because he holds her gaze as she returns her feet to his lap. His heavy breathing is music to her ears; she’s missed the sound of him trying to control himself. She traps his cock between her feet, rubbing it gently, agonisingly slowly, her toes playing gently with the tip.

“Oh fuck. Jen. _God, Jen_.” While the salacious effect of silence should not be discounted, with Jethro she feels all the more powerful for making him talk. “Please.”  
There it is again. That word.

She applies a slight amount more pressure, twisting her feet just so and he’s coming, his whole body shuddering with the effects, and his semen coating her feet.

She doesn’t move as he regains his focus, his breathing evening out. She maintains her position as he begins to tidy up, though when he makes a grab for the box of tissues sitting nearby she makes a low, throaty tsk-ing sound (really he should know better). She’s still in control and this particular scene isn’t done yet so she looks on proudly when Jethro leans his head down to her feet and begins to lick his come away. Once her feet are clean he stands, returning his clothing to some semblance of order and starts edging towards the door.

Jen doubts anyone would be quicker to avoid the awkward post-coital talk of ‘we just kinda did it at work’ than Jethro. However he does seem to be forgetting one, rather crucial, thing.

“Marine.” He turns, the conditioning of replying to that address is something you never quite forget. She turns so that her feet are both now firmly planted on the ground, but they’re spread enough (and her skirt has been hiked high enough) that she’s fairly certain he can see the dark green lace thong she’s wearing. “I thought you never left a man behind.” (Her shrug is casual, the look in her eyes anything but). “Or a woman, in this case.” 

She grins wide as he kneels at her feet and ducks his head between her legs. He doesn’t waste any time with foreplay (they do both have jobs they should be doing, after all) just uses a hand to pull the scrap of lace she’s calling underwear aside and dives his tongue into her slit, dragging it up the length of her dripping cunt, his teeth grazing her clit gently as his tongue begins to lap at it. His strokes are quick and it takes barely any time before she’s coming hard, her thighs trembling and her fingers digging into his scalp as her hands grasp for purchase.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on running this a bit like my own personal kink meme. If there’s a kinky scenario you’d like to see fulfilled by these two feel free to review/pm me/ask me on tumblr (my url is magnass). If you choose to message me you can ask me to keep you anonymous and I will be more than happy to do so.


End file.
